


Hunger Is The Best Sauce

by uschickens



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad pseudonyms, Food Porn, Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-18
Updated: 2010-07-18
Packaged: 2017-10-10 15:51:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uschickens/pseuds/uschickens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which <a href="https://captainawkward.com/2012/02/13/190-the-sandwich-means-i-love-you-a-valentine/">the sandwich means I love you</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunger Is The Best Sauce

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neros_violin](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=neros_violin).



It took Sam almost a month to catch on to what Dean was doing. In his defense, Dean had never really mastered "subtle," so it was a genuinely unusual phenomenon Sam was dealing with. Looking back, the first time Sam was able to pinpoint Dean's Plan In Action was Sioux Falls, South Dakota, after de-haunting the corn palace (first time for Sam; fourth time for Dean).

They were both pretty beat up, with Dean walking forward on his toes to keep from jarring his ribs, and the bruise blossoming high on Sam's right cheekbone meant that Dean was gonna have to check them into the motels for the next week or so. (Sam was identifiable enough without adding any more identifying marks. "Tall guy with enormous bruise on face in room 206" was something Sam was keen to avoid.) They slid into the car very carefully, and Sam stared blankly out the window while Dean drove them in rare, blessed silence.

Sam was out of it enough that it was almost a full block before he noticed.

"Dean. Dean. Dean. The turn. The hotel. Back there, you missed it." He pointed uselessly, halfheartedly behind them. He was almost too tired to protest to whatever shenanigan Dean was dragging him on this time.

"Food first, Sammy. Promise you won't regret it." Dean looked almost as tired as Sam felt. It made Sam's gut twist, seeing him so wiped out. It already felt like they were running out of time.

Dean drove to the other side of town - what there was of it - and kept going. They avoided the interstate and took the old highway, the last of suburbia slipping away into cornfields and farms. Sam figured Dean had found some hole-in-the-wall biker bar in the middle of nowhere that served up a halfway decent breakfast, but instead he turned off onto a long gravel driveway and parked in front of the small farm house at the end.

As they got out of the car, Sam saw the small, plain woman on the front steps, wearing an honest-to-god apron and looking as if she was expecting them. "You're a bit early," she called out. "Everything all right, or will you have to go back tomorrow?"

"No, ma'am," Dean called back. "Everything went fine; I just brought along help this time." He elbowed Sam up towards the porch.

"Charlie's brother, as I live and breathe!" The plain woman's face softened into a radiant smile that Sam couldn't help but return. "Glad to know he's not out there running around without anyone watching his fool back." She reached out to Sam, clasped his hand between her two small, rough palms. "Eliza Moore. It's a pleasure."

"Joe -" Sam caught Dean's eye "-Watts. The pleasure is all mine, ma'am."

Eliza peered at him a moment, then smiled again. "Well, come on in. Like I said, you're earlier than expected, so I haven't finished the eggs. Coffee's on, though."

"And biscuits?" Sam hadn't heard Dean sound that eager since he discovered deep-fried Snickers a few months back.

Eliza laughed. "Of course there's biscuits. Knew you were coming, didn't I?"

Dean laughed in return, and Sam arched an eyebrow to himself. Looks like he was the only one who _hadn't_ been expecting them.

The biscuits were better than Sam expected, actually as good as Dean's very audible enjoyment of them would indicate. Fluffy but not flaky, perfectly buttery, not too sweet, didn't turn to paste as soon as he started to chew. Dean gleefully built sausage and bacon sandwiches with them, then dipped the whole concoction in his egg yolk, then the gravy. Sam left one biscuit half to soak in egg while using the other half as a makeshift gravy spoon. If anything, Eliza's gravy was even better than her biscuits - creamy-smooth, thick enough to spackle with, dotted with just-spicy-enough sausage.

As they ate (and Sam ate even more), Dean and Eliza told him how they met the first time Dean de-poltergeisted the corn palace where Eliza's Johnny, God rest his soul, had been rehearsing for the polka festival. ("That man was a farmer through and through, but he did have a gift with the accordian," Eliza said, a little misty. Sam worked very hard at not looking at Dean.) Johnny made it through the poltergeist shenanigans just fine and brought Charlie, the new corn muralist with a gift for dealing with the occult, home to have his wife feed him up in thanks. When trouble started up again about eight months later, Johnny dug up Charlie's number, and Dean headed back to South Dakota. The next time he drifted through, only Eliza was there to drink coffee and wait for Dean to show up battered and triumphant in the small hours of the morning.

When Dean started to droop over the remains of his coffee, forgetting to hide his breath hitching slightly against his bruised ribs, Sam deliberately rubbed his eyes and started hiding yawns poorly. Dean kicked at Sam's chair and heaved himself upright.

"C'mon, Joey, let's get you to bed before you faceplant in the eggs." Dean bent to kiss Eliza's cheek. "Spectacular, as always, ma'am."

Eliza gave him another of her brilliant smiles and patted his arm. "I can make beds up for you, no problem if you like," she said. "There's a cot in my sewing room, and the couch in the den folds out. I'm out in the back pasture today, so you wouldn't even hear me."

"You know I appreciate the offer, but Joey and I'd better get rolling. Things to do, other national landmarks to de-haunt." Dean didn't even have to check with Sam before saying no; not only was Sam highly unlikely to fit on either of the proffered sleeping arrangements, but there was no way they were sleeping in different rooms. Not now. Sam was fully prepared to pitch a fit if necessary, but it wasn't. Sometimes even Sam was willing to accept that there were some things they didn't need to talk about.

They bade Eliza goodbye and made sure she had both their phone numbers, for the next time things (inevitably) went haywire at the palace. She loaded them up with sandwiches and three jars of pickles, then hugged them both. "Drive safe," she called to them from the porch, squinting into the rising sun.

Sam grinned at her over his shoulder. "You have met Charlie, haven't you?"

Dean shoved him, and Sam shoved back, reflexively avoiding Dean's ribs. "Just for that, you're taking first shift driving," Dean said, flipped the keys at Sam's head. Sam grabbed them reflexively, leaving him open to more shoving from Dean.

"Boys, quit tussling and get to bed. I don't want to hear you've run off the road into the Johnsons' fields again," Eliza said.

"Ma'am, you're going to have to tell me more about this 'again,'" Sam called back as Dean manhandled him towards the car. "I'm going to need details."

"Say nothing!" Dean said, slightly muffled by Sam's hand mashed up against his face.

Eliza was still laughing and waving as they pulled away, Sam in the driver's seat. (Shockingly, Dean had actually let him keep the keys after pelting them at his head.)

"You know where you're going?" Dean asked, wedging himself down and up against the window. "I don't wanna wake up and find us halfway to Topeka."

Sam snorted. "I think I can find our way back to town. It's, what, ten whole miles?"

"Never hurts to check with you," Dean said. "Still haven't forgotten last fall in Des Moines."

"Keep it up, and I'll let you sleep in the car," Sam said.

"Me and my baby are just fine together."

"I'll remind you of that when you can't move your neck tomorrow."

Dean squawked and made indignant noises, but Sam had already pulled onto the main highway, and the rhythm of the road was already getting to him. He drooped heavier and heavier before finally settling into soft, shallow breathing still five miles out. Sam drove on while his brother slept, heart and stomach full.

***

It was another four hunts before it happened again - a quick salt and burn in Fayetteville, Arkansas and three school hauntings in and around Greenville, Mississippi. ("I fuckin' hate homecoming season," Dean muttered one night. "Even worse than prom. More stupid rituals, more stupid deaths, more work for us." Sam had no adequate response, as he was busy being throttled by some poor, geeky teenager from the fifties who still had rope marks from where he'd been tied to a tree the night before the big game. Dean spent nearly an hour that night picking scattershot rock salt out of Sam's cheek, after Dean shot "that pencil-necked bastard. Did I mention I hate homecoming?")

This time, they finished up ridiculously early, squeezing in an entire purification ritual between the end of class and the start of the dance. With most of the student body down at the football field, it was the best time. The dance committee was going to have a hell of a story to tell, though. (If anyone would believe them.) Sam wanted to stay and apologize for the ruckus by helping rehang all the streamers, but Dean dragged him away. ("It's kind of shameful how many kids these people let die on school grounds, Sammy. They deserve to have their dance ruined by vengeful ghosts." "_Dean_.")

Still, they were in the car and pulling away not long after eight o'clock, slipping in between the shadows and kids in formalwear. Dean didn't even say anything, just drove straight to what looked like a gas station and parked around back. Sam had gotten himself wrapped up in his own argument about the current state of social ostracism and group manipulation in high school, so he didn't pay any particular attention.

Sam trailed Dean out of the car and up to the back door, on a roll. "And, god, I think mostly I'm just glad I never have to go back to high school myself." He pulled up short as Dean knocked on the door.

It opened, and a guy stuck his head out. "Que?" he snapped at them. Sam paid no attention, as the smell that wafted out with the guy made him immediately forget everything other than how _hungry_ he was and promptly start salivating. He wasn't entirely sure what was on the other side of that door, other than something formerly cow-based, but he knew he desperately wanted to be on that other side.

"Hey," Dean said. "Is Joe around?"

The man rattled something off in Spanish, different slang than what Sam had picked up in California, but Sam was nonetheless pretty sure of the general profanity and obscenity level.

Dean remained unfazed. "Could you let him know that Duane dropped by? Wanted to say hi before we left town."

The man stopped. "Duane? Really? Have you come from the school?"

Dean nodded. "It's taken care of."

The man's snarl transformed into a smile wide enough to hurt. "Thank you! My Luisa is a junior, off dancing with a boy this evening -" he frowned briefly "- and we feared for her, truly. It's gone now, the cuco?"

Dean nodded again. "Gone, and others with it. Should be good to go now. We can leave you with some stuff, though, to help make sure it doesn't happen again."

The man laughed, delighted. "Come in, come in! I will find Joe and you can tell him the good news."

Sam would have considered being concerned about so many people ('many' meaning 'two') knowing them and what they did, but he was too busy being delighted at being admitted into the inner sanctum of beefy goodness. He ogled each and every steak they walked past, and he'd never admit it, but he might have moaned just a little when he saw the enormous pot of mashed potatoes. They hadn't eaten since before first period, spending most of the day in the rooftop storage unit of the school, and in the presence of such food, Sam's stomach was staging a revolt and planning a walk-out unless he did something about it.

Turns out that Joe owned the place, and his reaction to Dean's presence and news was just as gleeful as Door Guy's. (Manuel, but Sam would always think of him as Angry Door Guy first.) By the time Dean had finished introducing Sam ("my brother, Gregg") and rehashing the events of the last couple of days, Manuel had passed the de-spiriting of the local high school around to the rest of the kitchen staff, and there was really no question, from staff or management, whether Sam and Dean would be staying to dinner. They herded Sam and Dean to a table right off the kitchen, close enough that Sam occasionally jumped from popping oil right over his shoulder.

Sam wanted to proceed immediately to the steak, do not pass go, do not collect side dishes, but Dean insisted. "You are not walking out of here without having the tamales if I have to tie you to that chair and force-feed you. It would be a crime against nature."

Sam was deeply skeptical. "Tamales? In Mississippi? Were you dropped on your head as a child?"

"Gregg. Greggy Gregg Gregg. I get embarrassed for you when you're ignorant like this." The tamales fortuitously arrived. "Just shut up and eat your goddamn tamale."

The quality of Mexican food outside of border states (they rarely mentioned California directly) was a running debate with them, what with Dean calling Sam a "food snob. How can you be such an elitist prick over rice and beans? What does it matter if it tastes good?" and Sam calling Dean "a poor, ignorant fool. Just asking the question shows how much you don't know." Sam was willing to declare a temporary truce - at least long enough to eat the tamales - based on smell alone, but he remained skeptical. It wouldn't do for him to give in too easily; bitching back and forth with Dean

They came still wrapped, and Dean burned his fingers trying to undo the corn husk. Sam sat back, waiting with only a dash of smugness, but Dean's alternately pained and blissful expression eventually goaded him into singing his own fingers a little bit, too.

The masa was perfect - creamy-soft, not too sweet, not too thick, just enough to hold everything together. The inside was beef - shredded, spicy, garlic underlaying it all, with minced roasted peppers hidden throughout, smoky and hot. Sam tackled the first one with a knife and fork, but by the third, he gave up on utensils and didn't even bother unwrapping them fully, just squirting the tamale straight from the corn husk into his mouth. Dean tried the green chile sauce and the chili as toppings, but Sam didn't want to mess with perfection (or slow down long enough).

Just as Dean had to prod Sam into starting with the tamales, he also had to get Sam to stop. "Dude. You still have, like, half a cow waiting for you. You're going to hurt yourself."

"Don't care," Sam said, still making happy food noises.

Dean kicked his chair. "I do. You're gonna end up with indigestion, and I'm going to have to live with you bitching all night long. Chew a little."

Sam reluctantly relinquished the tamale plate to a beaming waiter and settled in for the long haul. Once again, Dean was right. It was possibly the most perfect steak Sam had ever eaten.

It was close to eleven when they finally stumbled out, food-drunk and happy, halfway wrapped around each other while trying to stay upright. Joe and Manuel made them promise to stop by the next time they were in town, and Manuel wanted their address to send them Luisa's graduation invitation next year. Dean flipped the keys to Sam again, claiming he was too full to give his baby the attention she deserved, and they were off.

***

The next one was less than a week later, over in Thibodeaux, Louisiana. An ankou in an oil derrick led to gumbo and etouffee for Donnie and Ronny at Ida's mother's house. ("She don't speak a word of English, now, chat, but that doesn't mean she isn't as grateful as the rest of us. Let her feed you and it'll all be right.") Sam didn't need a single word - or consonants, really - to express his gratitude in return, and honestly he felt very close to Mrs. Miller when they were done and groaning yet again. The gumbo was smoky and thick, with andouille sausage and fresh crawfish. It was spicy enough to make his eyes water a little but not so much that he couldn't eat it. ("Must have been a good day," Ida said, shaking her head. "Maman's taste is starting to go, just a little. Some days you can't even be in the same room when she's spicing.") When they offered the alligator, Dean accepted, cackling a little in glee.

"Looks a little like the thing from Florida when you were in tenth grade, eh?" he said.

Sam groaned. "Great. Now I can't eat it. There were _tentacles_."

"Hey, I guarantee you this tastes better than that would."

Unsurprisingly, it did. Sam didn't like to think about how he could state that with certainty.

Loosened belts, fond farewells, and Dean making Sam drive away - the pattern repeated itself all over again. It was the first time Sam started to notice anything, but the post-food coma was too strong for him to really put anything together beyond the way his heart clenched at those few moments when his brother let him take care of him for a change.

***

Another three weeks, and it was tacos in Austin, barbecue in Corpus Christi, pancakes in Omaha, and the best corned beef Sam had ever had, _ever_, in Cedar Rapids. Sam started putting the pieces together as they crossed the Texas - Nebraska border and confirmed some things in Iowa, but it wasn't until the home-cooked Italian in Montana that he said anything.

It started out the same - a mostly routine hunt in a town where Dean didn't really need the map, followed by Dean driving them somewhere (a house, a restaurant, a bar, or, on one memorable occasion, a fire station) where they were welcomed with open arms, full plates, and a different name on everyone's lips. In Red Lodge, they were Angus and Malcom, and Joe and Mariana Patterson greeted them with handmade tapenade and fresh bruschetta.

"Dude, I didn't even know you knew the word tapenade, much less liked it," Sam whispered, tracking Mariana's every move in the kitchen. (She was doing something with garlic and tomatoes that had Sam fascinated and almost pathetically eager.)

Dean leaned back in his chair and patted his belly. "I am a man of hidden depths," he intoned.

"Mostly located in your stomach."

After the salad ("picked from my own garden, boys, and if you don't eat it, I might be so hurt I forget to bring your pasta"), Mariana placed a truly epic plate of spaghetti and meatballs in front of them while Joe refreshed their wine glasses. They briefly considered serving themselves onto the individual plates Joe offered, but instead they just attacked the mountain of pasta with forks.

They'd settled into a comfortable, chewing silence, and Dean had just flipped the last meatball onto Sam's side of the plate when Sam said quietly, "I see what you're doing, but I don't get it. Just thought you should know."

"What, making you eat the last meatball? Nothing to get there - I'm not the one with the freakish stomach, and if I eat it, it's not gonna be pretty." Dean was the epitome of nonchalant.

Sam huffed, impatient. "Not that." He reconsidered. "Well, yes, that, and everything else." He set his fork down, a dramatic enough move that Dean actually looked up from the plate. "I'm talking about Eliza's biscuits, Joe's tamales, the Miller's gumbo, and everything else. We haven't eaten at a diner in over a month. Hell, we haven't talked to this many people in a _year_. Not that I'm complaining, but I don't get it."

Dean tried again. "What's there to get? 'Why are you feeding me, Dean?' You're the one who always bitches about greasy spoons."

"Yeah, and you're the one who threatened to quit if he had to eat one more microwaved burrito. Is that it?" Sam didn't know why he was pressing so hard. Probably because Dean was resisting so hard. Sam never could resist poking at Dean when he was being mulish.

"Yes. That's it, Sammy. You have found my newfound devotion to healthy living and low cholesterol." Dean stabbed at the noodles and twirled with a vengeance.

"Ah. That explains your renewed commitment to bacon," Sam replied, just as dry.

Dean looked up, meeting Sam's eyes. "Yeah, and next week, we're going for fried chicken in Illinois." He glanced away, refocusing on his fork.

Sam let it drop, but he didn't look away. He watched Dean throughout the rest of the meal, watched Dean refuse to meet his eyes, watched Dean shift in his chair, watched Dean fuss with his napkin.

Finally, mid-fork-twirl, Dean looked up again. "I just wanna make sure you know where to eat. People need to know what they're getting into when they offer to feed you, so I figured it was better to introduce you myself." He went back to twirling.

Sam's hands went slack, and his fork popped out of his loose grip when Dean twirled extra-hard on the same noodle Sam had been twirling. Red sauce splattered on the mostly-white tablecloth. Dean made a small noise of disagreeableness and said, "You're making a mess. Didn't I teach you how to hold onto a fork?"

Sam opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He saw it in flashes - _Dean escorting him all over the country, introducing him to an ever-changing series of faces and food, telling people, "This is my brother. Feed him like you would feed me. Feed him even when I'm not here," Dean imagining Sam retracing their steps, bouncing from tacos to tamales to fried chicken to homemade pizza, knowing where to go because he'd driven it before, knowing who to talk to because he'd talked to them before, knowing what to eat because he'd eaten it before, sitting at a table alone (or with a pretty girl), but the important thing being Sam sitting there _without Dean_, Sam sitting alone, Sam eating alone, Sam being a substitute for Dean to all these people, Sam being fed like Dean was when Dean was alone, Sam alone, Sam alone, Sam alone_.

"You dumbass motherfucker," Sam said, low enough not to be overheard. "You unbelievable shit."

Dean started but didn't look up. "Nothing wrong with being prepared. Plus none of these people'll ever blow our cover, not even if they knew."

"Not what I'm talking about," Sam said. He had to deliberately let go of his wine glass, worried he was going to break it.

"Not _going_ to talk about it," Dean said. He shoved himself back from the table and stood. "Gonna go ask Mariana for dessert to go."

Sam grabbed Dean's wrist as he passed by. "Dean."

"_Malcom_." Dean looked down at him, all insolence and lip curl, but he didn't break away. "You got something to say? You gonna tell me how we'll be back here, together, for tomato season next year? You gonna tell me how we're both gonna go see Laura in Georgia next summer and eat her peach pie till we're sick with it? You gonna tell me _how_? Because I'm not waiting for you to figure it out. No sense in that, and there's not enough time. Too many good places to eat." He pulled his wrist away, slipping out of Sam's grip easily.

He was full to bursting, but Sam had never felt so empty in his entire life.

***

That was March. They stuck to takeout after that.

***

Then there was May.

***

For the first month After, Sam was on a strict carbohydrate-based diet. Barley, rye, hops, potato when it suited him - anything that could be fermented. He steadfastly set out to drown himself in a bottle far faster and far more efficiently than his father had done.

It was Ruby who washed the taste of booze away, got him eating again. She pulled him back from the edge, replaced the lip of the bottle with her own mouth, if only for a moment. She was warm, and she was sort of alive, and she offered him an entirely new way to drown in the false hope she offered. Even then, he could taste the lies on the tip of her tongue; he just didn't admit it, even to himself. (They tasted like stale french fries and week-old pizza. Sam didn't notice, or at least pretended not to.)

***

Of _course_ Ruby pretended Dean was the pizza guy. Of course.

***

When Dean first came back, it didn't work. _They_ didn't work, and it was almost as awful as having Dean gone entirely. (Almost.) Sam knew there was something really wrong when the only meals they ate together anymore were gas station burritos in the car between jobs, but at that point it was too late. They were already hurtling down a path that led them inevitably to a small church in Maryland.

It wasn't until after the whole Lucifer thing was finally wrapped up, until after the world _didn't_ end, that Sam was able to start to make things right. He prided himself on being more subtle than Dean, but even after everything, Dean still knew him better than anyone else in the world, heaven, _or_ hell. He got away with the fried chicken in Illinois _and_ New Orleans, but he was pretty sure it was the chile rellenos in Tuscon that gave him away.

Still, it wasn't until they were headed north through Utah that Dean said anything. Sam had actually thought he was asleep, sunglasses still on and head rocked back, but when they skipped the turn-off to 84 and kept going north, Dean asked, "Are Joe and Mariana expecting us?"

"No," Sam said, steadfastly not lying. He hadn't planned on calling them until they stopped for gas on the other side of the Idaho border, maybe dropping by later in the week after they wrapped up whatever it turned out to be in Pocatello.

"You don't have to do this, you know," Dean said, sitting up. "You don't have to make nice. There's nothing left to forgive, or get over, or whatever. Let's just, you know-" he gestured vaguely "-go forward."

"That's what I'm trying to do," Sam said. "This is me trying to go forward."

Dean snorted.

Sam eased to the side of the highway, pulling onto the shoulder even as he wondered why all their important conversations seemed to happen in the middle of nowhere with eighteen wheelers plowing by. He supposed it was a tradition, in their own fucked-up Winchesterian way. He parked and twisted in his seat.

"Dean. This is it. This our life; this is how we're going on. We travel; we hunt things; we spend every damn waking moment together, mostly in this car, and I'm _good_ with that. I just think we can have more." He shrugged. "I think we _deserve_ more. And sometimes 'more' is a good meal fixed by people who aren't going to call the cops or the shrinks on us."

Dean didn't look at him. "Yeah, well, you might have noticed that we don't generally get more."

Sam twisted back around to stare out the windshield in the same direction as Dean. "Yeah, well, you came back, didn't you? Everything else is just gravy."

Dean snorted again. "Some gravy."

Sam threw up his hands. "Do you still not get it? After everything? Dean, for me, this is it. _You_ are it. You. I." He stopped himself before he said anything else, already sure he'd said too much.

Dean didn't say anything for a long moment. Sam dared to look over. Dean was still staring out the windshield, hands restless on his legs. Finally he said, "You gotta do it first, Sammy. I want. I don't think I-"

Sam was moving before Dean finished his name. Because for as well as Dean knew Sam, Sam knew Dean right back. His fingers were soft on Dean's jaw, turning him towards and into Sam. Dean came willingly.

Dean tasted like ketchup and In n Out french fries from forty miles back, lips still a little salty. He tasted like everything that Ruby hadn't been, like maybe they _were_ going to get through this all.

***

Three days later, Joe and Mariana invited them over for dinner, and they accepted the offer to stay the night in the extra bedroom over the garage. No, they assured a worried Mariana, just one bed wouldn't be a problem.

Three months later, Jamil and Rashida insisted they stay over for babaganoush and stuffed grape leaves after Mick and David de-poltergeisted their place.

"Why do I have to be Mick?" Sam whispered, watching Dean chase a dribble of hummus - perfectly smooth and topped with a grassy, peppery olive oil that Sam would have eaten plain on pita, or maybe just straight out of the bottle with a spoon - down the side of his hand with his tongue. "You're the one with the lips."

"You're the one who obsessed over the Goblin King for most of 1995; I'm just typecasting," Dean said, blatantly stealing the last of Sam's pita bread.

Sam considered. "Good point." He grabbed Dean's hand and licked the last of the hummus off his fingers.

Dean just grinned.

**Author's Note:**

> For 2009's [spn_j2_xmas](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_j2_xmas/) exchange, gifted to [neros_violin](http://neros_violin.livejournal.com).


End file.
